Then conscience plays th' accusing angel;
Spectres of murder'd victims flit before
His eyes, with soul-appalling vividness;
Hideous phantasma shadow o'er his mind;
Guilt, incubus-like, sits on his soul
With leaden weight,--types of the pangs of hell.
His memory to the scene of blood reverts;
He hears the echo of his victims' cry,
Whose agonizing eyes again are fixed
Upon his face, pleading for mercy.
See! how he writhes in speechless agony!
As morning dew-drops on the face of nature,
So hangs upon his brow the clammy sweat.
Each feature of his face, each limb, each nerve,
Distorted with remorse and agony,
Is fraught with nature's speechless eloquence,
And is a faithful witness to his sin.
It is not _all_ a dream, but memory holds
Before the sleeper's eyes her magic glass,
In which he sees the image of the past.
_Huddersfield_. S.J.
* * * * *
ANTICIPATION.
_(For the Mirror.)_
'Twixt the appointment and the day
Ages seem to roll away--
Lingering doubts and cares arise,
Fancy glows with sweet surmise;
Now a hope--and now a fear,
First a smile--and then a tear;
But that day may never come,
Death may seal thine earthly doom.
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